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TTPON us 'Vagabonds -who take 
^-^ Our packs and paddles Sunday 
The good folk look austerely doivn. 
Though they may smile on Monday. 

Some call us pagans, others tramps; 
The truth they ne^er knew — 
We faithfully attend the Church 
Of Saint Bartholomeiv. 



SONGS OF 

SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 



Songs of 
Saint Bartholomew 



Sara Hamilton Birchall 



Alfred Bartlett 
Boston 



«, '.' i ^ 



Copyright, igog 
By Sara Hamilton Birchall 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two CoDies Received 

JUN HI moii 

f LASS ^ AXc iNo. 



DEDICATION 

Dear Happy Day: 

You and I have gone to Saint Bartholo- 
mew's Church together too often, and shared 
the same camp-fire and the same blanket too 
many cold nights for any formal words to 
pass between us, even on the printed page. 
So here I will put only the old wish that we 
have said so often, and meant so sincerely. 
— Here 's Luck! 

S. H. B. 
The Eggshell, 
June 28th, 1908 



SONGS OF 
SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 



Saint Bartholomew's-on-the-Hill 

JUNE! 
June on the sunny hills, June 
Among the fragrant sedges, June 
Trilling with brooks, tickling the children's 

feet 
With her fox-tail grasses, 
June with her maiden face! 
Ah, the still day passes 
So lingeringly in June! 

Like a thread of golden honey 
Poured from a silver jar the long hours drip 
Here in the sun, dreaming amid the fields, 
Hearing the village church-bell gravely 

clank, 
Seeing the black-robed worshippers below 



17 



SONGS OF 

Step decorously along the dusty path — 
How the sweet amber moment-drops fall 
coaxingly! 

And in the grass the harebell nods her head 

To us free pagans, saying, 

"Hear to me! 

I call you to my preacher!" The groined 

roof 
Of the rough, gnarled and ancient apple-tree 
Spreads its fret-carving clear against the blue, 
Here at Saint Bartelmeo's-on-the-Hill; 
The lark skips blithely through the tangled 

vetch, 
Lilting remembered scraps of litanies. 
And in the orchard-choir boom the bees. 

Hist! 

In the dusk of the pines 

Was it stir of a leaf? 

Was it flight of a frightened bird? 

Or is it Syrinx here in the warm wood 

Stolen from Pan and his revellers? 

Soft! SoftI 

Upon you, hider! 



i8 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 

Are the old gods dead indeed? 

Here in the cloistered pines 

There is no white flash of feet. 

She is gone — or was not. 

Yet — that delighted laughter, smothered, 

soft, 
Is it only the brook that chuckles and 

gossips and runs 
Away with its secrets half-hinted? 
Syrinx, you rogue! 
You will frighten the monks from their beads 

if you frolic and run 
In their Gothic pine-porches. 
Have you forgot your playmate vagabond 
Who chased a will-o'-wisp across the seas 
And left his luck at home? Why run then, 

elf? 

Violets where she fled! 
Violets in the grass along the brook, 
Violets starring the path, and entangled deep 
Among the gray old beech-roots. Violets 

everywhere 
Till I fain would tread on air and save 

their leaves. 



19 



SONGS OF 

Violets everywhere, and the warbler's song, 
"Sweetheart, O sweetheart, O sweetheart!" 
Ah, in our June 
What miracle, what dream! 

And, as the day grows stiller, at the edge 
Of gathering twilight, and the whispering 

hosts 
Of darkness hesitate, and linger close 
Among the thicket-edges, faint and clear 
The satyrs call among the leafy reeds, 
And whistle in the shadows of the pines 
Until sweet wanton Echo mocks their call, 
And laughing dryads wave their slender 

hands 
Among the silver birches by the spring. 

Since first some Grecian lad, late lingering 
Among the sleepy hollows of the field 
Stood frighted, when Silenus and his horde 
Trooped by, vine-crowned, or sweet Diana's 

horn 
Rung in his startled ears a faronade. 
The woods have been elf-haunted. In the 

whins 



20 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 

The dreamer sees white arms, and goat-foot 

rogues 
A-rollick through the dimness; hears the 

rout 
Go shouting by among the stately pines; 
Or by him, sleeping, a slim dryad kneels 
With wondering eyes, and touches his 

closed lids 
With cool and blue-veined fingers; or he 

wakes 
To catch a quick glimpse of a little faun 
Half-frightened and half-curious, in the fern. 

And at the wood's edge, where the tavern 

spreads 
Its rambling wings disordered, June 's in 

bloom, 
And all her friends are keeping holiday 
With pigeon-wing and fiddle. Look you 

now 
Where our lost Syrinx makes coquettish eyes 
Across her cider tankards at our friend 
Who ripples "Money-Musk" so masterly. 



SONGS OF 

Pan, by the gods! But lift those ragged 

locks, 
And I will show you his sharp-pointed ears. 
So Pan would lead a village frolicking, 
And change his reed pipe for a violin, 
And hide his goat's feet. Hear him lilting 

there! 

So in the twilight on the tavern bench 
The gray old fiddler coaxes the quick strings 
And in the dust the children pat their feet. 
I think I saw within that dusky door 
Saint Bartel smiling at his children here, 
Thou, friend, and I, and underneath the elm 
Our brother yonder, the old fiddling faun. 



22 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 

The Lamps of St. Bartholomew 

T3EF0RE the altars of the hill 

The aspen hangs her shimmering veil, 
And by the granite boulders still 
The sweet leaf-incense does not fail, 
For over pasture hill and dale 
The slender wood-nuns light anew 
On every mullein's velvet pale 
The Lamps of Saint Bartholomew. 

We woodland folk his rites fulfill 

With thrush's song and spider's sail; 

Find holy water in the rill. 

And shrines along the intervale. 

Where the good saint, all bronzed and hale, 

Gives absolution to his few, — 

And glow beside his altar-rail 

The Lamps of Saint Bartholomew. 



23 



And to the wanderer comes a thrill 
When, tramping on through sun or hail, 
He sees the mulleins on the sill 
Of that gray altar where the snail 
May creep unharmed among the shale. 
Their gold flame burns against the blue 
Unwavering in the summer gale — 
The Lamps of Saint Bartholomew. 

Good Saint, when soft the hidden quail 
Calls to wood-vespers in the dew, 
We pray a blessing on the frail 
Tall Lamps of Saint Bartholomew. 



24. 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 



Gipsy Song 

/'^IPSY, gipsy, gipsy girl! 
^-^^ April's at the door, 
April's whistling through the wood- 
Must I call once more? 

Gipsy, gipsy, gipsy girl! 
Keen across the night 
Hylas flutes among the pools 
And the road 's moon-white. 

Gipsy, gipsy, gipsy girl! 
Must I whistle still, 
Waiting at your silent door 
On the ferny hill? 

Moonlit road and breaking sea, 
Wet wind from the south! 
Gipsy, all your lover lacks 
Is your scarlet mouth! 



25 



The New Romany 

' I ^HE maidens go to church, to church, 

All coifed and kerchiefed fair, 
With silken shoes and ruffled gowns. 
And smoothly-braided hair. 

But on the hills we make our camp, 
My gipsy lad and I, 
With leaping flame and bubbling pot, 
And wide blue tent o' sky. 

The chapel has its benches hard, — 
Good sooth, and what care we? — 
The maidens look demurely down. 
Nor let the lads be free. 

Oh, let the pinching parson drone! 
I '11 give my love my hand. 
And we will say the Lovers' Creed 
Upon the rippled sand. 



26 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 

And let the dames repent their sins, 
And keep their souls full well! 
I '11 give my love my lips to kiss 
And follow him to hell. 

Belike the parson knows the road 
He prophesies we tread — 
'Tis Heaven lies thereby, we say. 
His curse on his own head. 

Oh, russet gown and sandaled foot, 
And speech of Roinany! 
I '11 give the peddler all my silks 
To sell the dames for me. 

'Tis I will wear the gipsy's brown, 
And eat the gipsy's fare, 
And make a gipsy tent my hall, 
Because my love is there. 



27 



SONGS OF 

The Gipsy Wedding 

/^NCE more the gipsy aster 
^""^ Her flaunting kerchief waves, 
Once more along the wood-ways 
His nuts the squirrel saves; 
Once more the vagrant passion 
Stirs heart of man and maid, 
Once more it is October, 
Once more the spell is laid. 

And to Saint Bartel's altar 
Two come where was but one, 
With goldenrod and beechleaf 
Beneath the amber sun; 
Two come, Saint Bartelmeo, 
With sunbrowned hand in hand. 
To pray your blessing, Father, 
Upon the golden band. 



28 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 

There in the tall cathedral 
Of tamarack and pine, 
The old saint gives the blessing, 
The sunbrovvned fingers twine. 
And down the dusky wood-ways 
The gipsy lad and maid 
Go hand in hand together 
Forever unafraid. 



29- 



SONGS OF 

Saint Martin 

C"AINTS? Do you want me to choose? 

^^ There are saints for every day in the 
year! 

Saint Barbara the fair and sad, Saint Some- 
thing the austere, 

Saint Cuthbert with his friendly beasts, 
Saint Dunstan called the Smith, 

There 's the Saint's calendar they sell — 
"God's compliments herewith!" 

The church has lore and lore of them — new 

saints with every priest; 
But there is one I like the best — a friendly 

saint, at least. 
We careless folk that take our pack about 

the golden time 
When every tree's a madrigal, and every 

leaf 's a rhyme, 



30 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 

To journey anywhither, along the sunny 

road, 
We pause to pray Saint Martin's grace, 

before we lift our load. 
A kindly, friendly saint is he, with youthful 

face embrowned. 
Who 's travelled many a morning mile with 

frugal scrip and hound. 

A lithe young fellow, with his beads worn 

like a golden chain. 
Who knows the tint of autumn days, the 

friendship of the rain. 
So I will vow Saint Martin not a candle, 

nor a wreath. 
But toll of pleasant journeyings along tlie 

open heath, 



31 



SONGS OF 

A memory of cloudless sky, a whift of 

merry song, 
A spray of scarlet raspberries that grow up 

slim and strong; 
And I wiU build Saint Martin not a 

tinselled plaster shrine, 
But just a heap of weathered stones beneath 

a stately pine, 

And I will pray Saint Martin not a sain 

you nor a save, 
But just a lilting wander-song, a sturdy 

marching stave, 
And I will keep Saint Martin's day the 

chiefest of the year, 
With thankful heart and open hand, and 

senile travellers' cheer. 



3S 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 

The Squall 

' I ^HE wind came out of the west, 

Flying! 
Down went the foam-tipped crest, 
Dying! 

Up came the sails to the wind, 
Sighing! 

Keen in their ears the storm dinned, 
Crying! 

Little white sails on the blue, 
Watching the swift-graying hue, 
Steady, each man of your crew! 
For there 's Death flying! 

The rain came out of the west, 

Driving! 

Blinding the eyes of the best. 

Striving! 

Loud hummed the bees of the squall, 

Hiving! 

Then at a breath fled the pall, 

Riving! 

Little white sails on the gray, 

Watching the squall pass away. 

Fought was the good fight today, — 

Here 's safe arriving! 



33 



A 



SONGS OF 

A Conversation 

ittle road goes up the hill, 
And Thistle-down says she, 
"I 'm off a-gipsying today, 
Drift up the road with me." 

"And sure 'tis nice to go," says I, 
"But 'tis not I will come. 
For who would feed my cow and cat. 
And make my wheel to hum? 

'Tis here at home that I will bide, 
And thanks to you," says I, 
So off went gipsy Thistle-down 
A-drifting in the sky. 



34 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 

The Elf-Child 

T IP and down the apple rows, 

^^ Underneath the petals, 

Rocking on a rosy bud 

Where the brown bee settles, 

All along the orchard wall, skipping 

through the clover, 
Rollicks little Iris, here and there a 

merry rover. 

Now she paints a blossom pink, 

Now she crimps its edges. 

Now she tags a butterfly 

All along the hedges; 

Tumbling with the foam-belled brook 

in the sunny weather, 
Frolicks little Iris with her nodding 

peacock feather. 



35 



All the children hunt for her, 

Up and down the river, 

Seeking through the orchard-row5> 

Where the blossoms quiver. 

On a bunch of meadow-sweet, hid 

among the roses, 
Little Iris sleepily both her eyelids closes. 



36 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 

In January 

' I ^HE lake is heavy with ice 

And long, low waves come in, 
Slow and reluctant to break 
With a curling edge of foam: 
The ragged clouds go by, 
And the winter world is brown, 
Brown and empty of singing birds and bees. 
"Where? where? where?'" 
The bluejay creaks in the pine, 
"Where? where? where? 
Is summer, and love, and song?" 
For the birds have southward flown. 
And the hives are sleeping and still. 
Sleeping and still. 
But the willows will bloom again. 
And the dusty bees come home 
With the tang and the sweet of spring. 



37 



SONGS OF 

The Traveller 

GRAY is the sky and gray is the pasture 
land, 
Gray and furtive and still as a questing 

mouse, 
Gray, gray, gray, behind and on either 

hand, 
With a rift of flame in the west, and a 

lonely house 
Tiptoe, astrain on the hill-top to see the 

day go by 
Out of the yellow rift, leaving the gray to 

black, 
With the red sun dead before his time to 

die, 
Buried in gray, with the reil flame at his 

back. 



38 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 

Black is the road that winds up the jealous 

hill, 
Black, with a windy arch of leafless trees. 
Chill with November mud and empty and 

still, 
Even the roadside pools thinly beginning 

to freeze. 
Up I climb on its shoulder. There is no 

one abroad tonight. 
Orange windows merrily glimmer afar, 
Firelit windows of home for the farmer 

and wright. 
But not for me so much as a watery star. 

Up, I am up on its shoulder, my heel on 

its sullen neck. 
It will be gray beyond, with a widening 

plain, 
Gray in the empty dusk, not even a bird 

to peck 
At a scanty crumb in the road, too chill 

to rain. 



39 



SONGS OF 

Such Is the chance of travel — come, up with 

you into the dark! 
Supper and bed we '11 find at a friendly inn, 
Supper and bed, and a deep-voiced dog 

to bark 
As I knock at the door, and the good dame 

calls "Come in!" 

No? For the plain is bare to the rusty 

edge. 
Well, I and the moor are old acquaintance 

still. 
Even a supperless bed by a wayside hedge 
Is better than my lord's platter against 

your will. 
Sweet is the heather tonight, though the 

bloom is gone, 
I will turn on my side, and sleep without 

dream or pain, 
I will awake light-hearted under the rose of 

dawn. 
And turn me, viol In hand, to the road 

again. 



40 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 

September 

' I ^HE wind comes up across the hill, the 

wind goes laughing by. 
It 's time to put your bonnet on, and let your 

stitching lie; 
It 's time to take your basket up, and follow 

on with me, 
Along the road and up the hill, strange 

countries for to see. 

For oh, the fields are golden now, the sun 

is sweet as wine. 
The lake lies blue beneath us, and the 

leaves are thick and fine; 
The fluffy clouds are drifting by, the winds 

are all a-blow; 
The geese are flying south before the 

vanguards of the snow. 



41 



SONGS OF 

Come out, come out across the hills! The 

golden blossoms call, 
September lifts her trumpet to her lips, and 

comrades all, 
But hearken to the ringing cry she sends 

from hill to hill — 
The scarlet leaves come fluttering down, 

the asters all are still. 

Come out, come out, and leave your seam, 

and put your spinning by! 
The sweet September calls us before the 

flowers die. 
The shimmering hills are free to us, the 

hours are golden sweet. 
Come out, dear love, and find my heart the 

pathway for your feet! 



43 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 

Twilight in Town 

' I ^HE city hurries past with brazen feet, 

■*■ A thousand things are at my hand to do; 
And then the pale dream-children come and 

pull 
At my swift-flying hands and busy heart. 
Frail ravelled shreds and silken strands of 

song 
Net my unheeding feet and mist my eyes, 
Till, mazed among my figures, I look up; 
See the lamps lighted, and above the smoke, 
The clear, pale, pitying glory of a star. 



43 



SONGS OF 

Sunset Hill 

^~\ Youth has gone across the hill 
^-^ To find the evening star 
Along the windy pasture lands, 
Where the late asters are. 

He said an hour's light good-bye, 
And promised merrily 
That he 'd come back o'er Sunset Hill 
To dwell again with me. 

He stood a moment on the crest 
To flute a lilting strain. 

Ah, Youth has gone to Fairyland! 
When will he come again? 



44 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 

Recognition 

T saw him with familiar, stranger face, 
■*- The grave and absent brow, the seeking 

eyes, 
That looked too sad for sorrow, gazing out 
In wistful search across the roaring town 
As if he saw the mountains' purple line 
Where he had played and dreamed his 

golden days. 
I think he found a slim wood-spirit couched 
Among the frail white sorrel In the moss, 
And followed her wan beckoning through 

the pines 
To lose his soul in seeking. Still he harks 
To hear her footsteps In his silent heart 
Peopled with her remembrance, and he 

speaks 
Half-hushed that he may hear, and wistfully 
Pauses between his words, and looks again 
To see her moving through the fragrant 

aisles. 



45 



The Fool's Song 

T wander on by dale and down, 
-■■ I know not where may be the way, 
Nor if before me lie the town, 
Or if I passed it yesterday. 

The Night Men called to left and right, 
The Shadow Witch sat by the fen, 
When, mazed with elfish lure and light, 
I stumbled on the fairy men. 

I seek — I know not what I seek. 
I still desire — but have forgot, 
I spy afar strange chimney-reek. 
And hope to find — I know not what. 

Witless I fare by holm and mere, 
I wander on a weary way. 
And look beyond my haunting fear 
In hope once more to see the day. 



46 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 

The Long Road 

OULLEN sky and sullen sea, 
^ Gull aflit below; 
Now my love has gone from me, 
Let him turn and go. 

Bubbles curding through the piles. 
Crawling sea before. 
Nay, I love you not, my lad, 
We will dream no more. 

Sullen sky and sullen sea. 
Treacly, oozing foam; 
There 's the empty offing, 
And the long road home. 



47 



SONGS OF 

The Return 

/^PEN sky and open sea, 
^^ Wind across the bay; 
Now my love comes back to me, 
Shall I say him Nay? 

Whitecaps breaking at the pier — 
He comes oversea. 
From the maids of half the world 
Turning back to me. 

Spring and sun and salty wind, 
Bird and bursting spray; 
"Sweetheart! sweetheart!" "Omy 

love. 
Yea, yea, yea!" 



48 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 

April-Song 

"\ ^ TE loitered through the orchard- 

^ ' lands, 
The wind a-blowing free, 
My lad and I together, 
And the birds in every tree. 
'Twas sweetheart this and sweetheart 

that. 
And none so fair as I, 
But thativas April-year-ago, 
And ivfiat 's the use to cry? 

'Twas none so true and none so sweet, 
And all the world was rose, 
And all the apple-trees were out 
As every lover knows. 
The bluebirds nesting in the branch 
Were not a tithe as gay. 
But that ijoas April-year-ago, 
And oh, 'tis long till May/ 



49 



SONGS OF 

In Cherry Lane 

TTE loves me, he loves me! 
And what is that to me? 
For many a man has loved a lass, 
As may — forgotten be. 

He loves me, he loves me! 
But wherefore should I care? 
For many a lad in April-time 
Has found a maiden fair. 

He loves me, he loves me! 
I passed him by today; 
And O, the lad looked after me 
Without a word to say. 

He loves me, he loves me — 
Oh, not a whit care I! 

I 'II rest awhile in Cherry Lane. 
I wish he would come by. 



50 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 

Twilight Love Song 
T TNDER thy lattice I wait, 



Madonna mia 



Hearing the evening bells, 
Ave Maria! 

Softly thou sayest a prayer, 
Ave Maria! 

Would that my name were there, 
Madonna mia! 

Worship the Virgin, sweet, 
Ave Maria! 
I kneel but at thy feet, 
Madonna mia! 



SONGS OF 

The Dead Campfire 

XTOVEMBER gales have blown 

Over its ashes 
Scarlet and golden leaves — 
Cold the rain lashes. 

Tall are the spearmint heads 
Where my love rested, 
Brown-cheeked and merry-eyed 
While the camp jested. 

One little wren and I 
Linger, sad-hearted: 
Out is the fire, 
My love 's departed. 



52 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 

Hand on My Shoulder — Steady! 

TTAND on my shoulder— steady ! 
And a well-known step beside, 
And the long, tree-shadowed, moonlit road 
Where a thousand phantoms glide. 

Hand on my shoulder — steady ! 
Now and again a word, 
Now the throaty, sweet, elusive call 
From hylas-pools faint-heard. 

Hand on my shoulder— steady ! 
Wine of the moon-witched spring 
Scenting the haunted woodland, 
Flooding the fairy ring ! 

Gate of the silver birches. 
House of the rain-wet leaves. 
Hearth of the glimmering fox-fire 
Where a housewife dryad weaves ! 

Night and the road before us, 
Night and a jewelled sky, — 
Who touches heaven nearer. 
Than you, sweetheart, and I ? 



53 



SONGS OF 

The Judas-Tree 

T^ OSE-RED In the morning, 
""■^ Bloomed the Judas-tree, 
Swiftly flowered at dawning, 
(Heed, O maids, the warning!) 
But I loved him without fear 
Of his love to me. 

All the year I 've waited 
For another spring, 
Spring so long belated. 
Spring with roses sated, ' 
Underneath an orange-tree 
Gaily lingering. 

Cold the spring-time bloweth 
When Love turns to Death, 
Slow the gray day goeth, 
Thick the orchard snoweth 
Spent white petals ; red alone 
Judas flourisheth. 



54 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 



A Departure 



THE train pulls out across the dusk, 
The winking tail-lights die, 
Across the yards the whistles call, 
"Who goes ? Who stays ? Good-bye !" 

The sun sets red above the town, 
The smoke hangs thick and gray, 
And you must go across the world 
Before the close of day. 

And you must go, sweetheart, sweetheart ! 
The days go trailing by, 
For you must go, and I must stay — 
God keep you, dear. Good-bye ! 



55 



SONGS OF 



After-Song 



T' 



^HEY say that Love is kind. 
Perhaps — it may be so. 
I have but seen his pain, 
And do not know. 



I have but bared my heart, 
And felt his sting ; 
I have but wept with Love, 
And cannot sing. 

The gentleness of Love 
I cannot find : 
Love's only kindness is 
That he is blind. 



56 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 

The Failures 

T II TE burnt our youth out gaily, 
^ ^ And, faith, we had our fun. 
We laughed and dreamed and trusted Luck, 
And now, at last, we 're done. 

The river is our kinsman. 
Fettered and foul and blue. 
With his yearning lap at the arches 
Where the tug-boats elbow through. 

One day, when the farce is ended, 
He'll give us a friendly bed. 
When the New Year's caught us napping 
With a gray, dishonoured head. 

Not yet we '11 claim our lodging, 
Good cousin, your sheets are damp — 
The bitter east wind snatches 
At the flame of the flaring lamp. 

Not yet. We'll risk our fortune. 
If the game goes up again, 
We '11 kiss Marie at the corner, 
And try your rest-house then. 



57 



Knowledge Tree 

Song for ''The Jester'\ by Franx Hah 

T know a merry Knowledge Tree, 

-■- Ho-ho! Ho-ho! 

Where all young lads and maids may see 

The apples growing rosily, 

Ho-ho ! Ho-ho ! 

So we look on the fruit o' the tree; 
Heigho ! Heigho ! 

And for a sidelong dimple small, 
Ho-ho! Ho-ho! 
The lads will risk their all-in-all, 
So down the knowledge apples fall, 
Ho-ho! Ho-ho! 

Sweet is the fruit o' the dainty tree, 
Heigho! Heigho! 



58 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 

Oh, eager lads and maidens fain, 
Ho-ho ! Ho-ho ! 
Oh, ashes 'neath the scarlet stain. 
And oh. the secret learned in vain ! 
Heigho! Heigho! 

So we pay for the fruit o' the tree, 
Heigho! Heigho! 



^9 



SONGS OF 

The Spenders 

A H well, a truce with dreaming! 
^ (How is it we are old ?) 
We 've staked our youth and lost it, 
The fire's dead and cold. 

We've played ; our rubber 's over ; 
The cigarettes are out. 
We played with dreams for shadows— 
What was the game about ? 

One last drink 'round the circle! 
We vanquished pledge to Fate — 
Here 's to the Unseen Partners, 
To Luck that came too late. 

One more! The night has faded, 
The stars are pale as pearls — 
We 've gone the route together — 
One more pledge to the girls. 

Out lights! Youth's house deserted 
Lies eyeless to the day, 
And spendthrift, old, dishonoured. 
We wastrels turn away. 



60 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 

A Prayer to the Virgin 

'T'^HE trumpets scream across the field, 
-■- The horse-hoofs thunder back the call 
While forth my lord rides to the fight, 
And I sit spinning here in hall. 

I hear the war-horns bray, and see 
The setting sun on splent and spear, 
But I must stay and light my lamps, 
And pray Our Lady for my dear. 

O Mary! I have told my beads. 
And broidered altar-cloths for thee, 
But O, to ride beside my lord. 
And feel the wet wind blowing free! 

To wake and see the stars by night. 
To follow o'er the well-fought field. 
To hold the sword-point at his throat, 
And bid Red Harold die or yield ! 



6i 



SONGS OF 

It may be sin, but didst thou know 
No more than babes within thine arms ? 
Didst never feel the fever stir 
Thy sweet, Italian woman-calm ? 

Nay, sweet, I will not vex thee. See 
This fair white candle here shall burn 
In penance. I am still again. 
And to my maidens — see— I turn. 



62 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 

All Saints' Day 

THE fire flickered low and died, 
The last soft ember fell, 
And the mother looked at the dawn of day 
As a lost soul looks at Hell. 

"The dead walk on All-Hallows Eve- 
Last year they wailed and sighed, 
Until I held my little lad 
So close he woke and cried. 

''Last night I knelt in green church-yard 
And heard him sobbing by 
Among the gray and hurrying ghosts, 
But yet I did not die. 

"The fire is dead this dawn," she said, 
"The door swings open wide. 
For I have fled with the shivering spirk. 
And with the lost souls cried. 



63 



SONGS OF 

**I mothered him all yesternight, 
And held him to my breast, 
The while I ran with all the ghosts 
That his dear feet might rest. 

"One only night of all the year. 
I blessed the weary road, 
For O he clung within my breast, 
So soft and light a load. 

"Oh how shall I come back ?" she said, 
"On blessed All Saints' Day ? 
I 'd rather be an empty ghost 
Between the dark and gray. 

"And, Lord, how shall I wait ?" she said, 
"A year of years in pain, 
Until I hold my little lad 
Upon my heart again ?" 



64 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 



She knelt beside the blackened hearth, 
And could not weep nor pray, 
While sweet above the linden trees 
There dawned the lovely day. 



65 



SONGS OF 

A Woman's Spinning 

"X T /"E spin a golden mantle for our gods, 
T T -^g women, with our smile and soft- 
hummed song, 
While golden-willowed April calls her bees, 
And May drops rosy blossoms on our wheel, 
And June, the month of gold, shines on 

our gold. 
And the web grows. He comes at early 

frost. 
So he will find his robe both warm and fair. 
So dream; the wheel whirs on, the heavy 

loom 
Lights all the dusky chamber with its glow. 

All summer we have toiled, and counted 

light 
Each flying sweep of shuttle, knot of thread 
That brought our dear task nearer finishing. 
Yet with the waning days we linger more 
Above the web we fashioned cunningly 



66 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 

For his dear sake and Love's, with fingers 

loath 
To take the last stitch ere we hear his horse 
Tramp in the courtyard, and we greet him 

home. 

O, singing sweep o' the wind and fall o' 

the leaves! 
And blue o' the sky, and joy of life and love 
His spear-points flash against the southern 

sky, 
And up the high-road winds his scarlet 

train. 
Again the sun is golden in the west, 
And eagerly we wait our gift to bring. 

Ah, foolish heart, and hands that strove 

in vain! 
Ye knew not of his fancies or his will ! 
Ah, dreams, that when we show him timidly 
He puts aside with laughter or with scorn! 
And all the wistful longing of our hearts 
That counts for nothing, since he puts it by, 
And, understanding not, will say to us 
That we know naught of him, and bitterest, 
Is well-pleased that with us it must be so. 

67 



SONGS OF 

Poor heart — poor hands — lie folded and be 

soft 
That when he bids us, ye be white and 

smooth 
To stroke his careless forehead into sleep 
And full forgetfulness of us, nor dream 
Of more ; it is forbidden by our lord. 



6S 



SAINT BARTHOLOMEW 

Mother-Song 

f^ Mary loved the little Christ, 

^^^ Dear son, as I love thee, 

Although she saw foreshadowing 

The great and bitter Tree. 

And Mary prayed above her Babe, 

Dear son, as I pray now, 

That she might bear the keenest pain, 

And keep the hardest vow. 

O little son, I love thee so ! 

Have mothers loved before ? 

Smile, little son, and tell me then, 

Could she have loved Him more? 



69 



X107 



yfMONG the birches on the hill 
His holydays are kept 
Where thrushes flute the anthems^ and 
Crumb- charity accept. 

The sermon never ivearies us; 
We hold the Amen peiu, 
And pay our peiu-rent to the Church 
Of Saint Bartholomenu. 



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